


Of all the Flowers you Picked (I Knew you Would Forget)

by adhdbuck



Series: Possession [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Basically, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Demonic Possession, Dissociation, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Murder, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting, all that jazz that comes with demonic possession, being possessed by a demon is not a fun time, lots of blood and gut talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:54:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28545933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adhdbuck/pseuds/adhdbuck
Summary: It had been common for him to spend his nights drinking as of late. As the lukewarm tavern ale passed through his lips, he was finally able to let go. Letting his songs guide his curses across the mountains and through the valleys.So when he would wake up in an odd place, he would shrug his shoulders, grab his lute, and make his way over to the next tavern.Or; Jaskier is possessed and forced to watch a demon live his life.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Possession [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2107386
Comments: 13
Kudos: 110





	Of all the Flowers you Picked (I Knew you Would Forget)

**Author's Note:**

> title from Elsa's song by the amazing devil 
> 
> I wrote this instead of working on a fic I started writing instead of writing another fic, life is interesting right
> 
> also shoutout to all of the demon!stiles fics I would read in highschool, and also supernatural because even though I stopped watching it like five years ago it is still ingrained into my body
> 
> please enjoy this angsty mess :)

The first time it happens, Jaskier barely notices.

It had been common for him to spend his nights drinking as of late. As the lukewarm tavern ale passed through his lips, he was finally able to let go. Letting his songs guide his curses across the mountains and through the valleys.

So when he would wake up in an odd place, he would shrug his shoulders, grab his lute, and make his way over to the next tavern.

Sometimes when he passed by a river or mirror caked in dirt, he would notice that his hair and beard had grown longer than he expected. Perhaps he had just lost track of time, between traveling, drinking, and playing, Jaskier didn’t have much time to keep up appearances,

_“Oh, if he could…”_

_He’s_ not here, Jaskier reminds himself.

That night or perhaps many nights later (Jaskier has been on a bender before it is nothing he isn’t used to), he wakes up in the middle of the forest, and he can feel his hair brushing the nape of his neck.

He decides to visit the barber and begins the trek to Oxenfurt.

When he blinks, he’s suddenly in Lyria, and when he looks down, there’s blood on his hands, and when he looks around the room, he spots a small child staring at him with wide eyes, and when he blinks again, he’s running, and when he blinks again, he’s in the middle of a tavern singing.

After he finishes the set, he walks out the back and throws up, and Jaskier can’t remember the last time he ate when all that comes up his bile.

He wants to walk back inside, but he hears someone laugh quietly from behind, and when he turns around suddenly, he’s in the middle of a bustling market in a city.

Jaskier spots silver hair, and he wants to call out, but the laughter grows louder till he can’t hear anything else, and when he closes his eyes to try and shut it out, he realizes that he can’t hear anything anymore.

As he opens them, he’s driving a dagger into the neck of an old man, he can’t do anything but watch as his hand rips the dagger back out, and he can’t even gag as his hand comes up to his face wiping the blood all over.

He can’t do anything.

After that, Jaskier stops trying to wake up.

He can feel someone, some _thing_ inside with him, trying to claw its way out to the surface. Trying to take his body for its own. Jaskier would have gladly let it take over if it had just _asked_ , but every time he wakes up smelling of rot and cannot wash his own body, he confines himself into a small part of his soul.

Holding onto whatever he has left like a child holding onto the skirt of their mother.

Sometimes, when it lets him dream, he can feel it watching. Peering through the colors, forever-changing sets, and masked characters, looking for something. As he walks through a castle made of stairs and walls made of paintings that watch his every move, he can feel it amongst them. But whenever he turns to peer over his shoulder, it’s not there.

One night, Jaskier dreams of silver and teeth and anger and blood, and he’s pushed off of a mountain, and before his body hits the dirt, he (it) wakes up.

And he (it) starts walking.

At first, he doesn’t know where. He never knows. He just feels his legs move _left, right, left, right, left, right_ … At least, he has his thoughts. The only place where he is still himself, and the it cannot come in, _yet._

He blinks, and he is sitting in a barber’s chair in Oxenfurt, chatting with the man about the weather with lips that move as though he is nothing more than a marionette.

Jaskier is surprised that when he looks in the mirror, the man who looks back is still him, the same eyes and nose and mouth and skin. He cannot reach up to touch his face, so how can he be sure, maybe this is a dream, and when he wakes up, it will all be forgotten within the morning fog.

Jaskier (it) pays the man and is led outside by his own legs. Walking around the streets like a mock performance, his stride is a bit too long, and his voice is a bit too loud. He can feel his smile splitting his cheeks, and there is iron in his throat from screaming in the tavern, and when he fucks the barmaid, he wants to close his eyes but he can’t, and he wants to vomit but he can’t, so he digs himself deeper into himself.

The next day ( _or is it?_ ) Jaskier is walking through the streets and spots silver again, and he calls out before he can call out, and a sick feeling washes over him. Or it would, but he is no longer himself. This body is no longer his.

All he can do is watch as his body moves closer and closer, and it feels like he’s falling down the mountain again, but he can’t wake up before the impact.

His (its) hand reaches out and claps Geralt on the shoulder. The man turns around, eyes softening and Jaskier screams while he laughs.

Jaskier can’t blink. It won’t let him blink. He watches them talk, walking around till they find a tavern. He hears Geralt ask after him (it), his voice comes out so _wrong_. Airy and light, there are no stutters or mumbles, there is no imperfection.

It becomes the perfect version of him, and Jaskier can feel it rake over his mind, wiping out everything that makes him himself until there is nothing left.

The pair start traveling again together, Geralt expresses his sorrow for what he did, and it laughs and says that it didn’t mind. He was made of much tougher stuff than that wolf. Jaskier crumbles when Geralt places a hand on his shoulder and he cries when it leans in and he wishes he would have died when his mother gave birth to him.

It doesn’t need him much after that, growing bored with letting him watch. Only letting Jaskier wake up when the Witcher is down on his knees when it takes him from behind when it kisses his shoulder in the morning.

He wants to scream, but he’s not sure what he would say, _“That’s not me…”_

Because isn’t it?

Those are his hands that caress Geralt’s face, his lips that find their way down his body, his skin that prickles at Geralt’s touch. It is all his.

It taunts him, letting him blink on his own, letting him move his fingers and toes like he’s starting to gain control of himself. When he reaches for his dagger, his own hand stops him, and he just watches because that’s all he can do.

Jaskier doesn’t know how long it’s been, he’s trying to hum to himself, and then it starts singing loudly enough to drown him out. Geralt looks back at him from Roach, and it smiles back at him, and Jaskier curls in tighter.

“Would you like to go to Kaer Morhen?” Geralt asks him one night as it strums his lute, it smiles and cracks his lips.

Jaskier prays for death.

They make it up the mountain, snow already beginning to fall. Jaskier spends it trying to knock himself off of Roach, it’s hopeless, but for a moment, he feels back in control of himself.

It’s only momentary, as Geralt introduces it to Vesemir. The older Witcher gives it a firm handshake, and it pretends to wince at the strength.

Yennefer is there and eyes it from her seat as Ciri bounds up to him, remembering his face from the various parties she attended with her grandmother. It combs through his memories, plucking out stories and conversations that it knows will please her.

Geralt guides it to his room, hand on its lower back, and Jaskier finds himself yearning to feel it.

It flutters around the room, commenting on things it knows that he would, making silly remarks only he could, moving his hands over the furs and running his hands through Geralt’s hair.

Except it’s not him, and he wouldn’t, but it knows him perhaps better than he knows himself.

Maybe this version, with the blood of the innocent marring his flesh, is the best version he could ever possibly be.

Geralt gently kisses his forehead, and _oh,_ if he only knew what his hands had done.

When it wakes up, it wakes up Jaskier along with it so that he can feel the blade at his throat.

Jaskier does not feel fear as it presses in,

_“Silver, for monsters.”_

And he finally let's go.

* * *

The alderman is the first person to bring it Geralt’s attention,

“There’s a killer in these parts.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow, “A monster?”

“Might as well be. People say it’s a human.”

“I don’t hunt humans.”

The next time he’s traveling through Kaedwen and sees warnings posted along the road,

_“ARM YOURSELF AGAINST THE THREAT”_

_“KILLER ON THE CONTINENT”_

_“A MONSTER WEARING HUMAN SKIN”_

He comes across bloodied homes and families missing mothers and fathers, children retelling stories of a wild man who walked into their village and sang as he slit their parent’s throats.

People beg Geralt to bring them his head, but none of them can ever tell him what his face looks like, so he moves on, falsely promising to return.

The whole continent is the same. Contracts that were thought to be drowners or nekkers or wolves all turn out to be the man.

He walks into cabins where the guts of old farmers have been strewn on the rafters. Geralt has to walk out when the smell of death becomes too much for him to handle.

The smell of sulfur wafts through, and Geralt tries to follow it for as long as he can, but it never lasts long. Whoever had committed these crimes had long since left, perhaps on the other side of the continent.

For some reason, unknown to himself, Geralt finds himself in Oxenfurt. One day he was following contracts, keeping an eye out for signs of the killer, and the next he was walking amongst minstrels and painters.

He kept his head low as he looked around for Jaskier. The man had been on his mind. Geralt just wanted to make sure he hadn’t gotten himself mixed up with the killer. Once he did, he would be on his way, and that would be that.

Except the bard always found a way to weasel his way into his life.

After their chance meeting in the market, they walk around, catching up with what Geralt had been doing.

He can’t stop looking at Jaskier as they make their way into the tavern. There’s something about him that’s just… _different_. It still looks like him, but his shoulders are pushed back slightly more, and his smile is just a little too wide and doesn’t reach his eyes. And when he talks, it’s much more polite and calm, nothing like the rockslide of words he’s used to coming out of the bard’s mouth. 

But perhaps this is just how the bard acts now. Geralt has no place to comment on the fact, not after asking the man to leave.

So, he decides to ask him to stay. Geralt missed the man’s chattering and singing, not that he would admit it.

Jaskier agrees, and they set out, and it feels nice.

Then Geralt apologizes, and Jaskier kisses him, and it feels wonderful, except it feels _different_ than how he expected. It’s not as rushed as he thought Jaskier would kiss him, and when he asks the man to take him, the look on his face is almost predatory.

But he ignores it because maybe that’s the way Jaskier is, and who is Geralt to know what the man is like in bed.

That’s how they travel. Geralt takes a contract, and Jaskier watches. Sometimes closer than he had before like he’s judging the Witcher. Waiting for him to slip or make a wrong move.

And sometimes, when Jaskier thinks Geralt isn’t looking, his face drops into something _else,_ as if he had dropped the mask he was holding, and all that’s left is just a blank slate. But when Geralt comments on it, Jaskier smiles his wide smile and kisses Geralt. Quieting his words into whimpers.

They’re staying at an inn, and Jaskier is poking at the fire, and for the first time Geralt sees his shadow, but instead he sees a demon.

His sharp breath alerts Jaskier or…not Jaskier,

“What’s wrong, darling?” He’s wearing Geralt’s chemise, and all of a sudden, everything is _wrong. Every_ kiss, every touch, every whisper is all _wrong_.

Geralt forces a smile and can taste the bile as he speaks, “Nothing.”

The other man smiles, and Geralt watches as it slips from his face when he turns back to the fire. The smell of rot that had been hidden beneath perfumes begins to leak, and Geralt can feel his eyes begin to water.

Geralt slips out of the room that night to throw up.

The next morning he sends a letter to Vesemir, warning him that he was going to bring Jaskier to Kaer Morhen this winter.

He doesn’t bother waiting for a reply. Even if his brothers had to cut him down, Geralt would bring Jaskier back. From wherever it is that he has gone to.

When Geralt asks him to join him at Kaer Morhen, his stomach twists, and as they make their way up the mountain, each step Roach takes is another stab into his heart.

Vesemir pulls him aside when Jaskier is busy entertaining Ciri, Yennefer keeping a close watch on the demon.

“Do you have any idea what you have brought here?”

Geralt can’t meet him in the eye, “Jaskier is not dangerous.”

Vesemir looks close to striking him, “That is not your bard anymore, Geralt, can’t you smell it? That body is filled with death,”

The man sighs as Geralt turns into himself, wishing to be far from this conversation,

“It would be best if you killed him and be done with it.”

Geralt tightens his fist, “I won’t.”

Vesemir shuts his eyes and places a hand on his shoulder, “I know.”

Geralt walks back into the room and leads Jaskier back to his. Careful not to let him escape from his light grasp.

Watching him walk around his room, Geralt can see it all now, that everything they had done together, every movement Jaskier made, was just a performance.

As they lay down for bed, Geralt kisses Jaskier’s forehead, hoping it finds its way to him.

After he’s sure, the thing is asleep or at least pretending to be. He slips out to meet with Yennefer. Who is waiting for him in her own room, mixing various potions that Geralt prays will work,

“You are a fool, Geralt of Rivia.” She doesn’t even bother facing him. It would be more than he deserves.

“I have to try Yennefer for his sake.” _He would have done the same for me._

Yennefer continues mashing together herbs and reading countless books she gathered from the library in preparation, and hands him a bottle, “If he truly is possessed, this should help keep him bound as you move him.”

Geralt nods and turns to leave, “Thank you, Yennefer.”

She sighs, “I’m doing this for him, Witcher.”

“I know.”

As he walks into the hall, she calls out again, “Don’t trust anything he says.”

And Geralt swallows the growing lump in his throat.

When he presses the dagger against Jaskier’s throat, every fiber of his being screams at him to fling it away. But the blade sizzles against his skin, and now all he can think is killing the man in front of him.

Jaskier looks up at him, and for the first time since they’ve met again, he looks like himself.

Geralt forces the liquid down his throat anyway and picks up his limp body, bringing it down to the dungeon where Yennefer already waits for him.

She’s busy drawing sigils on the ground as Geralt locks Jaskier’s wrists within dimeritium shackles. Vesemir joins them, there to bear witness to whatever will transpire. Everything feels wrong, and Geralt just wants it to be over with, so he can pretend it never happened.

Yennefer stares him down, “When I begin reading, I cannot stop. Do you understand?”

Geralt nods. She drills into him harder,

“No matter what he says, no matter how much he begs, you will not stop me. Are we clear?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, let’s begin.” And Yennefer begins to read.

As soon as she does, Jaskier begins to stir,

“Geralt…what’s going on?”

He can’t stand to hear his voice being used like this, “Shut up.”

“What…Geralt…I’m scared,” He begins to tug at his chains, “Why am I chained? Dear heart, please answer me.”

“SHUT UP!” Geralt bangs on the wall and watches as Jaskier’s face morphs from fear to nothing to deranged amusement.

He leans back in his chair, “Took you long enough, Witcher. I was really starting to get bored playing the whole bard act.”

“Geralt, stop talking to it.” Vesemir hisses from behind him.

Jaskier, it, the demon, whatever it is, smiles, “Yes, Geralt dear, don’t you know better than to engage with demons. Well…you didn’t seem to mind when you took my coc—”

Geralt grabs the demon by the throat, and the thing just laughs at him, _mocks_ him.

Letting go only when Vesemir drags him away, “Control yourself!”

Geralt growls but breathes in. He should know better. But he can’t help it that whenever he looks at Jaskier, all he sees is nothing, and it makes him furious.

Because Jaskier is the sun breaking through the trees, he’s a cool river after a long ride, he’s the soft grass beneath lovers, he is everything, but when Geralt looks at him, he cannot see any of it. All he sees his death and bodies buried long before their time, and all he can smell his rot and sulfur, and it makes his stomach churn with grief for a man that might as well be dead.

Yennefer continues with her reading, attempting to ignore the curses being flung at her by the demon through bloodied teeth,

“You’ll never get back what you lost, _witch._ ” It laughs at her, “You will die before you ever carry a child.”

Geralt can see her falter for half a second, and the thing smiles wide, Jaskier’s lips cracking at the strain,

“Quiet, demon.”

It just looks at him, eyes beginning to bleed as Yennefer begins to near the end of the sermon, “Oh please, are you trying to be her knight in shining armor? Do you even like the bard, Witcher? Or did you let him fuck you out of pity?”

Geralt grits his teeth, reciting old lullabies Jaskier once sang to him.

“LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU, BASTARD!” The demon bellows, the pages Yennefer was reading from fly across the room, and her and Vesemir rush to gather them before it regains any control.

Geralt stays in his place, drawing his sword in case the worst comes to pass.

Blood continues to pour out of Jaskier’s face, “You know what? I’m feeling merciful…”

And before Geralt can question what’s going on, Yennefer begins reading the sermon again, and Jaskier’s head goes limp.

Then it rises, slowly, “Ger…alt…”

He closes his eyes and breathes in,

_“You will scream ‘I won’t forget you’_

“Geralt…please…”

_But I’ll cover my cold ears_

“Listen to me…”

_It cannot be a lie_

“I need you…to kill me…”

_If no-one hears”_

The sword in his slips from his grasp as he looks back at Jaskier, _really_ Jaskier. Geralt tries to rush over to him, but Vesemir grabs him,

“Let me go.” Geralt growls.

Vesemir tightens his grip, “Geralt.”

“HE’S HURT LET ME GO!”

Vesemir keeps hold of him, and Geralt can hear the thing begin to laugh again,

“ _Gods,_ ‘Oh Geralt my love please kill me,’ what a fucking joke.” It spits blood on to the floor,

“I hope you are happy with the carcass I’ll leave behind,” It laughs, “Because your bard was dead before I even met him.”

Yennefer finishes and the demon is gone, silver no longer burns his skin, and Geralt moves him back to his room. She stays with him, looking after his wounds, and Geralt keeps himself outside. Unable to look at Jaskier’s sleeping figure without wondering if it really is him or if it’s just another trick.

“He’s awake.” Is all Yennefer says as she leaves his room, still tired from last night.

Geralt doesn’t bother her with any questions and walks into the room, and sighs with relief as he sees Jaskier sitting on the balcony,

“Jaskier!” But he doesn’t respond.

So Geralt comes closer, and the man looks like he hasn’t slept in ages, and his cheeks are hollow as though he has not eaten for longer,

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier just continues to stare out into the courtyard, watching as Lambert teaches Ciri how to strike, “Why didn’t you kill me?”

Geralt stills, he should have. They both know it. The crimes that the demon committed while wearing Jaskier’s face is beyond the simple punishment of death.

But still, “I couldn’t.”

Jaskier turns to him, eyes filled with fire and tears,

“How dare you,” he spits, “You ask me out of your life, and I do as you ask. But I ask you for a favor in return, and you _can’t_?”

“Jaskier, I could never kill you.” Geralt tries to grab his hand, but Jaskier slaps him with it instead. It barely stings. Still, he places a hand on his cheek to cool the pain.

“Fuck you, do you know what I’ve done? Huh, Geralt? Because I do,” Jaskier pushes him in the chest, “I killed a child, Geralt, and laughed! I slit her parents' throat and sang a little tune as I did it! And then I watched her as she cried and then gutted her!”

Jaskier stands up, hands pulling at his hair, Geralt tries to calm him, but it’s far too late for that.

“I would bathe in their blood, and I would just sit there and watch as it dried into the floorboards,” Jaskier whispers as he stares at his hands, “as it dried into my skin…and I could never wash it off. I wasn’t allowed to wash it off, Geralt. I had no control over my body.”

He swings back around to Geralt, pushing him again, and the Witcher can do nothing as he watches the tears spill over, “I was there the whole time. I watched it love you with the same hands that had killed so many innocents.”

“I’m sorry.” Is all Geralt can say.

“What are you sorry for, Geralt? The only thing you should apologize for was not killing me when you had the chance.”

“I won’t,” Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s hands again, “I refuse to apologize for that. You can ask me to beg on my knees for forgiveness for anything else, but I will not apologize for saving you.”

“You did not save me, Geralt,” Jaskier sneers, backing away from Geralt, “you damned me.”

And with that, Jaskier leaves the room, the door silently closing behind him.

And with that, Geralt falls to his knees, chest heaving as he pleads over and over and over again for Jaskier to come back.

But he knows that the bard is long gone.

**Author's Note:**

> like I said, not a fun time. 
> 
> i might write a sequel but wouldn't it be fun to let them live forever in a perpetual state of suffering :D
> 
> I hope you guys...enjoyed this? writing stuff like this is a lot more my speed so it was kind of...fun(???) to write maybe not fun, but idk you know what I mean
> 
> shoot me a prompt @ [adhdbuck](https://adhdbuck.tumblr.com/) I'm feeling frisky
> 
> comments/kudos/criticism are appreciated <3


End file.
